Your battle already won

Attack like the fire

And be still as a

Mountain

Funny girl

Funny, I never thought of a machine as “being.”

The end was in sight.

Shelley be damned

Ozymandius had won

in the end.

Not knowing

Not knowing or not being aware

are so different

from

your not wanting to know

Falco Perigrinus

The pilgrim falcon
A bird of pray

Their nests, a pilgrimage
to the sanctity of life

These birds your father bore
These flights of fancy
Toned down geomancy
A restless native nature
Barely captured
In the shutter stop
Smash of metal snapped to
Metal
The film spool glides
/another butterfly /



Nothing is the same
Nothing changes
How could you have prepared my child’s soul for that eventuality?
/there is no way /
*and yet you tried *


In your own flawed way
to show me a world
no one else could see
And this is why
We are still standing
in the desert cold
tonight
San Gabriel
The frontier spirit
brings hypothermia
the birds are all a flutter
As they wind down song 

for an hour
or two noir 
Before the belting out of Broadway musical show boat tunes begins
With nightingales 

torrents of warblers skimming night

 blooming jasmine 

filling all air with reverie
A symphony of life
the hummingbird
buzzes cigarette smoke

And that was


Just the beginning


 

Memories of Elephants

at some point
don’t you wake up
somehow
and
decide
NOT TO BE EVIL
or do you
look in the
mirror
and realize
that
what
looks
back
at
you
is
dark
and
hollow

 

 

 

 

artwork by robert montgomery at robertmontgomery.org

 

just like you

you’re never there
when
I need you
but
always around
when
I don’t

Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
surprising
that few people know this

Icarus
ascending
nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

granted,
the mistress must
wait
each day
for
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
Athena
Prometheus
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way

Cultivating souls

“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”
Arthur Rimbaud

Soul Sauce Sabbath

The days

pass by

as numbers

I never

wanted it

to be

this way

and yet

it still

is